


Shut Up And Kiss Me

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, M/M, Mentions of period accurate homophobia, like in spades, look at them actually talking about their feelings we're all so proud, they're in LOVE but they just gotta angst about it real quick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25629199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Father Brown had been led to some strange places in his investigations and usually relished it, but a party full of bored socialites and aristocrats who only want to ply him with alcohol and make a mockery of him was one he'd rather not have been led to. Luckily, Hercule Flambeau was there and always willing to provide a distraction...
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	Shut Up And Kiss Me

Father Brown sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head against the cold wall behind him. He was sitting up on what he supposed had once been a very grand four-poster bed in a very grand room, but now the headboard was missing, the wallpaper was peeling, the curtains were faded, there were suspicious stains Father Brown didn’t even want to think about on the carpet, and even the silk sheets he sat on top of were decidedly not at their best.

The loud raucous sounds of the ongoing party drifted up through the floorboards beneath him, and he sighed once more. His quest for the truth and penchant for crime solving had led him to some strange places, but an all-night party in some unused dilapidated mansion for bored unimaginably rich socialites to indulge in illicit activities and secret rendezvous to their heart’s content was one he’d rather not have been led to. He’d got the invitation through Bunty; she’d convinced an uncle of hers, a Lysander Windermere, the wayward middle child of his family by all accounts, to invite him along as a plus one. He’d done his best to make the most of the situation, plenty of good food and _plenty_ of good drink were never a bad thing after all, and Father Brown had always genuinely enjoyed meeting new people, no matter how different or strange they may seem. However, Lysander and his friends quickly proved _tiring_ , to say the least. They found a priest at a party like this nothing short than an object of fun and mockery, and while jokes and propping questions about vows of celibacy or dirty old priests were nothing new, it did grow tiresome, especially when the Father’s tensions were already high due to the unexpected presence of one of the other party guests.

As if on cue, Father Brown heard the sounds of his door creaking open, and someone softly padding into the room.

“Hercule.” It was a statement, not a question; Brown didn’t even need to open his eyes to recognise the footfall and who it belonged to.

“Father.” 

Father Brown sighed once more and stubbornly refused to open his eyes as he listened to the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut once more, and the footsteps moving closer across the creaking floorboards.

“I’ve brought you a peace offering. But, if you don’t want it, I’m sure I can find some other old drunk who’d be a bit more grateful.”

Brown opened his eyes at that. Hercule Flambeau leaned casually against a bed post, a full glass of wine in each hand and a faint smile tugging at his lips. Father Brown gave a sheepish smile in return and accepted one of the glasses gratefully.

“I came to see if you were alright,” Flambeau said, sitting down on the edge of the bed without waiting to be invited. “I have grown unimaginably bored of those fools downstairs. Your company is much more favourable, Father.”

“You consider me more interesting than some of the most elite artistes and socialites in England? I’m flattered, truly.” Father Brown tried and failed to hide an amused smile, and took a swig from his wine.

Flambeau scoffed. “Father, a blind mule would be more compelling company than them,” he said scornfully. He paused, then continued. “But you mustn’t sell yourself short like that. You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. Truly.”

Father Brown found himself suddenly rather lost for words. “... Oh,” he said at last.

“Honestly Father,” Flambeau continued, undaunted. “I wouldn’t trust some of the guests at this party as far as I could throw them. It was rather foolish of you to come alone.”

“I didn’t come _alone_ ,” the priest protested. “I came with Lysander Windermere!”

Flambeau scoffed once more. “The poet? Ridiculous man with a ridiculous name, and a complete moron to boot. No Father, you’re lucky I'm here to protect you.”

Father Brown spluttered into his wine. “I don’t need _protecting_ , Hercule!”

Flambeau stared at him incredulously. “I thought you said you suspected someone here was a murderer?”

“Well - yes, but -" the Father sighed, resting his head against the wall once more. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger because of me,” he said, softly.

“Father,” the thief said, surprisingly gently, “I'll be fine. I put myself in danger on a near daily basis, with or without you.”

“I know, and I wish you wouldn’t,” Father Brown muttered, closing his eyes and feeling the cold hard wall against the back of his head. “I worry about you _constantly_.”

“Oh Father.” The response was a barely audible whisper, so soft that Father Brown half-wondered if he’d nodded off and dreamt it.

The two men sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the soft creak of the mattress and the occasional sound of sipping the only sign that Father Brown hadn’t been left alone.

“Puerile idiots,” came a mutter, at long last.

Father Brown blinked in confusion. “Sorry?” he said. Then: “Who?”

Flambeau was clutching his wine glass so hard that Father Brown feared it might shatter, and he appeared to be staring at a particularly unpleasant stain on the wall. “Them,” he said, his voice hard. “Downstairs. They only accepted your request to come to this party for _fun_. So they could make _sport_ of you.”

“I know,” said Father Brown, keeping his voice bright and measured. “I don’t mind being seen as a joke, as long as it helps me find the truth.”

Flambeau turned to stare at him, his eyes narrowed, and Brown felt uncomfortably like his thief was staring into his soul. “You _do_ mind, though. Or you wouldn’t have left the party early to come up here alone, would you, Father?”

Father Brown sighed. He wondered briefly if this was how other people felt, when he pried into their true feelings. He supposed he deserved a taste of his own medicine. He downed the last of his wine, and placed the glass on a bedside table. “I just got tired of it today. A joke can be taken too far, you know.”

Flambeau furrowed his brow. “Doesn’t it bother you, Father? That most people never even realise that you’re a genius? If I were you, I'd want proper credit and respect to be given.”

An amused smile tugged at Father Brown’s lips. “Who do you think I am, Sherlock Holmes?” he said. “I’m no genius, Hercule. I just... notice things.”

Flambeau pursed his lips. “Hm,” he sniffed, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Anyway, their crude and juvenile humour was entirely misplaced. You’re the most irritatingly godly man anyone’s ever met. Their attempts at schoolboy erotica were obviously never going to have any effect on you.”

It was Brown’s turn to furrow his brow. “Even the most pious of priests is still just a man, Hercule,” he said. “A priest might still have... urges. Longings.” He sighed again and stared at a suddenly very interesting chip in the bedpost. “A priest might still fall in love,” he added softly.

Flambeau looked at him in interest, head tilted slightly to one side. “Have you ever been in love, Father?” he asked.

Father Brown chuckled. “Oh yes,” he said, a faraway smile on his face.

Flambeau shifted closer, his eyes shining with curiosity. “Never considered being swept off your feet by some beautiful duchess and leaving the priesthood forever?” he asked with a smile.

Father Brown laughed out loud at that. “Certainly not,” he said, firmly. Perhaps the wine had had more effect than he first thought, because before he could stop the thought from spilling out of his mouth, he said: “I've never been the least bit interested in the fairer sex in _that_ way.”

“Oh. Oh! So you’re - oh!”

Had his heart not currently been trying to pound out of his chest, it would have been quite comical to see realisation finally dawn on Flambeau’s face. Father Brown looked at the thief with a nervousness he hadn’t felt since they first met. In fact, this was somehow worse. If he had died then, he could have happily gone to Heaven without knowing what he was missing here on earth. If he turned Flambeau against him _now_ , after everything, and he had to go on living without his thief in his life…

“Does it bother you?” he asked. He tried to keep his voice light, but he couldn’t keep the fear out of his eyes, or stop his voice from shaking, just a little.

Flambeau looked him directly in the eye and smiled, a rare genuine, warm, reassuring smile. “What, that you’re a homosexual? No, Father. It doesn’t bother me.”

Relief flooded Father Brown. He didn’t think he could’ve borne it if Flambeau had left now.

“A beautiful duke, then?”

“Hercule,” Father Brown said admonishingly, though he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “I would’ve hoped you’d know me well enough to know it takes more than looks and money to win my heart.”

Flambeau placed his wine glass down on another bedside table and leant forwards slightly, a look of genuine curiosity on his face. “What sort of man would it take then?” he asked. “To make Father Brown fall in love?”

“Well,” Father Brown stared at that fascinating chip in the bedpost, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering in his chest. “It would have to be someone clever. Someone interesting. Someone complex. Someone who never fails to surprise and impress me. Someone who sees me as more than just a bumbling priest. Someone… someone who would rather spend time with me than with England’s top socialites. Someone whose every visit I secretly relish, someone whose movements I track in the papers, just to make sure they’re safe, someone who I miss and worry about every time they’re away, someone who I think about constantly, someone who I lie awake at night thinking of, yearning for -“

He broke away, head spinning, foggy, as though waking up from a dream. He really _had_ had too much to drink. Had he really said all that out loud? He shook his head to clear it, and looked up.

Hercule Flambeau was gaping at him, frozen, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He swallowed heavily, blinked, and opened and closed his mouth a few times foolishly, not a sound escaping his lips.

Brown had never seen Flambeau _speechless_ before. This was new, and a little disconcerting. Brown wasn’t sure he cared for it. It didn’t feel natural. 

“Do you -” Flambeau’s voice was strangely hoarse, and almost painfully quiet. He licked his lips and spoke again, his voice disbelieving. “Do you _yearn_ for me, Father?”

Father Brown’s heart skipped a beat. _Oh dear_ , he thought. _Did I really say that part out loud?_ He supposed there was no point in lying or dodging the question now. “… Yes,” he said, simply.

As though in a dream, he watched in wonder as Flambeau slowly, _hesitantly_ leaned closer, and placed a trembling hand on his cheek. Brown shivered, and was unsure if it was the coldness of the fingers or the gentleness with which they caressed his face that had caused the shiver. His breath caught in his throat. His heart felt like it was in danger of exploding out of his chest. He closed his eyes, and reopened them to find Flambeau’s face impossibly close to his own, his own breathing shallow, a look of uncertainty etched across his features, sparkling, intelligent eyes searching Brown’s face, searching for some kind of answer, and then -

And then Flambeau closed the gap and pressed a kiss to Father Brown’s lips. The briefest, chastest, lightest of kisses, not unlike being kissed by a shadow, and yet it had a strange desperation to it; the hand on the priest’s cheek was trembling more than ever, and as Flambeau broke away the thief gazed into his eyes once more, searchingly, _pleadingly._

A strange sad look flickered across Flambeau’s face, and he moved to back away. Father Brown realised that right now he wanted nothing less than that, and as though his arms were moving of their own accord, he brought one hand to gently cover the still trembling hand on his cheek, and placed the other hand on Flambeau’s waist, marvelling at the warmth beneath his palm, and ever so gently pulling his thief closer.

It was as though Flambeau melted into him. He let out a sigh, and kissed him once more, with a little more conviction this time.

Father Brown found himself kissing back, and although he would be the first to admit he was woefully out of practice, when they broke apart once more, Flambeau was smiling softly. 

“Father,” he breathed in a tone of what could best be described as reverence. 

Father Brown shivered, an unpleasant sense of guilt washing over him. He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He’d told himself time and time again that he was wrong for even wanting this, and now the opportunity had actually arisen, was he really giving in to temptation so easily?

“Hercule, wait, I don’t think - that is I shouldn’t - shouldn’t we…?“ he stammered pathetically.

Flambeau rolled his eyes, though a smile still tugged at his lips, and raised a hand to silence him. “Father, Father, with all due respect, would you please just shut up and kiss me?”

He made a compelling argument.

Father Brown reached out, cupped the back of Flambeau’s neck, and pulled him closer once more. Flambeau met him in a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss, burying one hand in Brown’s hair and tugging at his cassock with the other. Brown slipped a hand under Flambeau’s suit jacket, marvelling at the warm feeling of Flambeau’s chest beneath his sweat-soaked shirt, the way it rose and fell with every breath, the feeling of the thief’s heart fluttering away beneath his heart. 

“My priest,” Flambeau breathed softly, almost possessively into the Father’s mouth between kisses. “ _My_ priest.”

Father Brown felt overwhelmed with sensations and emotions. Warmth, guilt, love, wonder, confusion, amazement, fear, lust, _guilt_ …

He broke away with a ragged gasp, his heart pounding and his eyes tight shut.

“Father?” Flambeau’s voice was breathless but tinged with concern, which only served to make Father Brown feel worse. “Father, look at me.”

Brown opened his eyes. Flambeau’s face was flushed and his lips red and swollen, but his brow was furrowed and his expression was serious. He placed a hand on Brown’s shoulder, caressing it lightly with his thumb. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“I -“ Father Brown met Flambeau’s gaze. “Hercule, I took a _vow,_ ” he said weakly.

“Oh, _BUGGER YOUR VOWS!_ ” Flambeau exploded, hitting the wall behind them with his free fist. Father Brown jumped at the sudden outburst, and Flambeau softened, dropping his gaze. “You want me. I want you. Can’t that be enough?” he muttered, staring at the mattress.

Brown ran his fingers lightly over the hand still resting on his shoulder. “…We can’t always have everything we want, Hercule,” he said, softly.

Flambeau snapped his head up and met his eyes again, his gaze hard and his lips pursed. “Why not? Hm?” he snapped. “You serve your God more faithfully than anyone. Why doesn’t your God want you to be happy in return?”

“Well…” Brown floundered helplessly. “I believe God wants peace, love, and happiness for everyone, but…”

“But _what?_ ”

Father Brown sighed, the familiar senses of guilt, longing, and confusion stirring and mingling in his stomach once again, the alcohol still buzzing in his system. “Hercule, shouldn’t I be satisfied with what I have? Why aren’t I satisfied with what the Lord has already given me?”

Flambeau blinked, his expression shifting, anger and annoyance replaced with surprise and confusion. “Father, are you… are _you_ asking _me_ for spiritual guidance?”

Brown nodded miserably. “I _should_ be happy, Hercule. Why aren’t I happy? I’m really quite lucky. I have a home. I have a good life, in a good parish. I’m not lonely. I do have love and companionship, I have Mrs McCarthy, and Bunty, their love for me is just as real and just as important as any _romantic_ entanglement -”

“And what about my love for you? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Father Brown’s head snapped up in shock.

Flambeau pulled his hand away from him as though he’d been burnt and withdrew in on himself, sitting up, hands clasped and shaking in his lap, lips pursed, deliberately not making eye contact.

“… Pardon?” Father Brown said, weakly.

There was a pause, then: “Don’t make me repeat it, Father.”

Father Brown’s head was spinning. The cocktail of conflicting emotions bubbling in his stomach had reached boiling point. “… Hercule, you love me?”

Flambeau was shaking, his eyes tight shut. “More than anything,” he muttered, looking worryingly like he was going to be sick. “More than anyone. Have done for years. You - you _centre_ me, Father. It’s almost as though you’re the only person who’s really real. Everything else is just a game and everyone else is just a player, just temporary, but you. You’re real. You’re constant. When I’m with you, everything feels normal. Safe. Like coming home.”

“What a terribly lonely way to live, Hercule,” Father Brown whispered, thoughts in his head swirling. 

Flambeau snorted humourlessly. “Don’t pity me, Father.”

“I’m not.”

Flambeau was still shaking, and still looked alarmingly like he might be sick. Father Brown reached out a hand and gently cupped his cheek. “I’m not,” he repeated, smiling softly.

The thief opened his eyes, and relaxed ever so slightly, leaning into Father Brown’s touch, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You’re a pious old fool,” he muttered.

Father Brown smiled nervously. He hoped he hadn’t ruined everything. “… You’re not going to leave me, are you?” he asked.

Flambeau chuckled, a genuine warm chuckle, and turned his face slightly to press a kiss to the priest’s palm. “No, Father,” he said. “I’ve waited this long already. To be honest I had you down as the one priceless religious artefact I coveted but could never truly have. I think I can stand sitting here until you get over your theological crisis.”

“I think,” said Father Brown, slowly and carefully. “I think perhaps God meant for us to love each other.”

Flambeau grinned, his eyes shining. “Well, in that case, Father...” He knelt on the bed, swinging a leg over the priest to straddle his lap, and placing a hand on each shoulder to steady himself. “Shut up,” he said with the quirk of an eyebrow. “And kiss me.”

The priest was more than happy to oblige. The investigation, after all, could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a standalone but I might write a sequel where they actually do some goddamn investigating at this goddamn party, because I already have some ideas. I am deep in Flambrown hell and might as well give in to the madness.


End file.
